The Other Side
by mdrwngnftwr13
Summary: This is set between episodes 3.1 and 3.2 of Supernatural. Hunters don't often question what happened to the people that demons are possessing. What if someone lost someone very closed to them and went in search of answers and found the Winchesters?
1. Get this show on the road

Eleven months. It'd been eleven months since Christine Halcott's father disappeared. Eleven months since Christine'd had a good night's sleep. Eleven months since her mother, Bridgett, had called her 'Chris', a nickname her father had gotten into the habit of using. It started with a phone call. Matthew Halcott's body had been found in an old cemetery forty miles from Wamsutter and Interstate 80. Which raised a couple hundred other questions. While Chris was on the phone with the Sheriff in Wamsutter, she used her work computer to transfer as many funds from her savings to her checking account online. She thanked the Sheriff for his condolences and hung up. Christine spoke with the head of the obits page, explaining to him what happened and that she needed a few days to drive to Wyoming and back. He understood, and she fled the building.

A five minute drive that felt like an eternity later, Chris pulled up into the driveway of the Halcott's modest two story house, complete with white pickett fence. Slamming the door of her blue 1999 Plymouth Highline, Christine jogged up the front walk to her house, fumbling with her keys. Sliding the key into the lock, she shoved her shoulder against the door impatiently as she turned the key, pushing the door open. "MOM!" Chris shouted into the house, closing the door behind her. She took the stairs, two at a time, until she reached the second floor, hurrying down the hall to her mom's bedroom. "Mom," Christine repeated when she got to the doorway. Her brow furrowed when she saw her mother, curled up on her side, her back to the door. When Matthew disappeared, Bridgett hadn't attempted to hide the fact that she blame Christine for Matthew's departure. Her heart squeezed painfully. Swallowing the bitterness that rose in her throat, Chris cleared her throat.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna head out of town for a couple days, mom. I won't be back tonight. Or the next. I'm not sure when I'll be home, actually," Christine said, staring at the back of her mother's head. Bridgett was quiet, no reaction. Christine entered the room, walking around to her mother's side of the bed, seeing that her mother was, indeed, awake. "Mom. Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm not going to be here to make dinner. You'll have to do it yourself. Are you comprehending what I'm trying to get across?"

Bridgett sighed, her shoulders rising and falling and she continued to stare at the wall, just below the window, across from her. "Yes, Christine. I am capable of taking care of myself," The woman replied in a bored tone.

A look of disgust crossed Christine's face and she scoffed, "Coulda fooled me," under her breath. Rolling her eyes, Chris left the room, heading down the hall to her own. Grabbing one of her suitcases, she dropped it on the bed, flipping it open. Within a few minutes, she had a week's work of clothes packed haphazardly in the suitcase. She grabbed a smaller bag, one she could keep in the front seat with her, tossing in her iPod, the jack already in the car. Entering the bathroom, she grabbed the travel case from under the sink, throwing in what she'd need on the trip. She set that in the top of her suitcase before zipping it up.

Halfway down the stairs, Christine hollered "I'm leaving!" She got no reply, not that she was _expecting_ one, and exited the house. Returning to her Plymouth, she opened the driver side door, leaning the seat forward and setting her suitcase in the backseat. Pushing the seat back, she slid inside, dropping the small duffle into the passenger seat. Sliding the key into the ignition, Christine paused, resting her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the garage door, wondering if she's going to regret making this trip.


	2. Questions that need answering

Some twelve and a half hours and nearly eight hundred miles later, Christine pulled into the parking lot of the Sagebrush Motel on McCormick Road in Wamsutter, Wyoming. After visiting the lobby, Chris returned to her car, lugging her suitcase up the stairs to her room. After taking a long, almost scalding shower, Christine collapsed onto the bed, falling into unconsciousness quickly. Her dreams were dark, filled with a variety of ways her father died. From the horrific to the tragic and disgustingly emo.

Chris woke up in a cold sweat, glancing at the clock. The red LED display read '5:38'. "Shit," Christine sighed, letting her head fall against the pillow. Not even four hours. She rolled onto her stomach, turning her pillow over, pressing her cheek against the cool material, closing her eyes once more. "Sleep, dammit," she muttered quietly to herself, trying to will herself back to sleep.

She managed to doze off for another two hours then woke to the sound of an eighteen wheeler horn in the distance. Scrubbing at her face tiredly, she sat up in bed. Raking her fingers through her auburn locks, she began to scoot to the side of the bed. Her feet hit the floor and she pushed herself into a standing position, then crossed the floor to the bathroom, moving to take another hot shower. Taking her dear, sweet time, Chris just stood in the shower for a good ten minutes, just letting the water rush over her. Christine had wasted enough time to make sure that the sheriff's department was open by the time she got dressed, had a bite to eat, and gotten directions from the older gentleman in the lobby of the motel.

Christine entered what Wamsutter called a 'police station', looking as official as she could when she approached the desk. Wetting her lips tentatively, Christine addressed the middle-aged man, "Hi, my name's Christine Halcott. I received a phone call yesterday concerning the...concerning the corpse of my father, Matthew Halcott."

The man glanced up at Christine, arching an eyebrow before reaching over and grabbing a file from the middle of the stack off to his left. Flipping it open, he looked down to the notes that were made within, concerning the deceased. "So, you're his daughter, huh?" The man questioned in a lazy drawl.

"I believe I just said that, yeah," Chris nodded, giving the man the 'are you kidding me, did you really just ask me that' look.

The man, whose nameplate read 'John Keller', gave Christine a hard glare. "Jake! Halcott's kid's here to see you!" He shouted, loud enough so his voice would travel to the office, not five feet away.

It was quiet for a moment then an older man, with balding, gray hair exited the office, looking Christine over. "Got here awful fast, didn't you?" He comments, gesturing for John to hand him the file. Glancing it over again, he waved Christine to follow him into his office.

Once they were sitting, Sheriff Jacob Andersen laced his fingers together over the file, which he'd set in the middle of his desk. "Now, Miss Halcott, I'm sure you have some questions," Sheriff Andersen began.

"You're damn right I do," Christine said, perhaps a little more forcefully than she'd intended. And the sheriff made it know how he felt about her tone by arching his eyebrow slightly. "Sorry," Chris muttered, biting her bottom lip. "It's just.... My father's been gone nearly a year. He dropped off the map like he'd grown wings and flown to God only knows where. My mother...she blamed m-- herself. She became very ill, bedridden, in the months following. She'd wait by the phone for hours, days on end, only getting up to go to the bathroom, waiting for his call. A sign that he was okay. That he hadn't just abandonded us. That he hadn't decided he was sick of us and wanted a new life without us. So, yes. I have questions, Sheriff Andersen. Lots of them."

A small sigh caused Chris' shoulders to rise and fall heavily, making the redhead slouch a little. "And I don't think even you could answer them," Christine finished, eyes a tad shinier than they were a moment before.

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Halcott. And I'll do my best to answer your questions," Andersen nodded, opening the folder to the first page.

"When was he found, Sheriff? Where was he found?"

"We received a tip less than a week ago about there being two bodies found in one of the old cowboy graveyards about forty minutes or so from here. Fella by the name of Singer, said he was a history buff and tombstone etching fanatic, traveled here, to get some etchings from some of the older stones. Said he found the bodies all shot up. John and I headed up there, finding your father and another victim. Black, early twenties, male. Looked like he pissed someone off something fierce--" Andersen stopped, gritting his teeth. "I shouldn't-a told you that, Miss Halcott. Mind pretending you didn't hear that last part?"

"All I care about is what happened to my father, Sheriff," Christine nodded. "How'd my father die?"

"From what John and I could see, Mr. Halcott died from a single gunshot wound to the heart. There were no other injuries, aside from the bullet wound," Andersen explained, glancing down at the file for verification. When he looked back up, he saw Christine's eyes flooded with tears, her chin trembling, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. If I knew why he got shot, I'd tell you. But there's just no way."

Christine sniffled softly, biting her bottom lip a little harder to keep herself from crying. "What about the man that had found them? S-Singer, you said? Maybe I could talk to him? Is he still in town?" Chris was grasping at straws, but she had nothing else to go on.

Andersen was shaking his head before Christine was halfway through her suggestion. "I shouldn't even have said his name, Miss Halcott. I don't want to imagine the trouble I'd get into for giving you the man's information and sending you there to interrogate him."

"I wouldn't interrogate!" Christine protested. "I just want to know what happened to my dad. I know he's dead. Shot in the heart. But I wanna know why. Why was he shot. Why in that graveyard. Why he left home. This man, Mr. Singer, is the first step leading to my finding out what happened. Please, Sheriff, I'm begging you. Please," Christine pleaded quietly, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Jacob Andersen was not a cold man. He'd teared up a little at the end of _Brian's Song_. And this girl lost her daddy. Jacob wasn't a father, but he knew that if he was, and he'd died of unnatural means, he'd want his kid to find out the truth. Just like Christine was doing. "If I catch word of you harrassing that poor man, I'll be on your butt on stink on a cowpie, you hear me, girl?" He says as he writes down on a slip of paper the number Mr. Singer had left, as well as the address of his Salvage Yard.

"Yes, Sheriff. I promise. I just want to ask him a few questions. That's all," Christine nodded, lifting her hand to wipe at her cheeks.

Sheriff Andersen stood, holding out the paper, a sympathetic look on his face. "I hope you find the answers you're looking for, Miss Halcott."

Christine stood, accepting the slip of paper, her bottom lip trembling a little, "Me too."

Christine exited the police station, and glanced down at the slip. Robert Singer's phone number and address where on there. "No, that can't be right," Chris muttered to herself quietly. "It _can't_ be." Christine lowered her arm then lifted it again. "You gotta be fucking kidding me," She sighed, shoulders slumping. Robert Singer's address placed him in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Her hometown. Christine crossed the parking lot to her Plymouth, climbing into the vehicle. She returned to the hotel, to check out and grab her bags. She was back on the road in less than a half hour, cursing quietly to herself the whole way.


	3. This ain't an episode of Buffy

Another twelve hours and nearly eight hundred miles under her belt, Christine pulled in front of Singer Salvage Yard. She hadn't bothered stopping at home to tell her mother she was back in town. There was always the possibility she had to go back to Wamsutter. Exiting the car, Christine made her way up the walk, climbing up the stairs to the front door. Opening the screen door, Christine pounded on the front door three times before lowering her hand.

There was no reply at first and Christine lifted her hand to knock again. Before the side of her fist could strike the door, it opened, revealing an older gentleman, mid to late fifties, bearded, looks like a lot of the locals with the flannel, jeans, and trucker hat. "Don't go pounding on folks doors, girl. Whaddya want?" He asks, gruffly.

"Mr. Singer, my name is Christine Halcott," Chris began.

"Means nothing to me. I'm sorry, kid, but I've got work to do," Mr. Singer replied, moving to close the door, clearly distracted with more important things.

"If you'd give me a minute, I could explain why it should mean something," Christine replied, lifting her hand and pressing it against the door to keep him from closing it in her face.

"You got two minutes," Mr. Singer sighed, lowering his hand from the door.

"Recently, you were in Wyoming, in a graveyard. Sheriff Andersen said that you were the one that found two bodies there," Christine explained as quickly as she could. As she did, she could see this look of 'Oh. Crap.' on Mr. Singer's face. "My father was one of the two men found. Matthew Halcott. Now, his name may not mean anything either, but I need to ask you a few questions. Please."

Mr. Singer's features darkened and he opened the door wider, giving her room to enter. "You better come in, girl. Can I get you a beer?" He offered as Christine stepped inside.

"No, thank you. Water, if it's not too much trouble," Christine replied, shaking her head. Brown eyes widened when she saw the interior of the house. Stacks and stacks of books covered nearly every available surface. There were even some on the steps near the railing. As Mr. Singer entered the kitchen, Christine closed the door behind her. "Wow, uh, you really like to read," Christine commented, eyebrows arching towards her hairline.

"Yeah, I'm an avid reader," Mr. Singer nodded, exiting the kitchen with a glass of ice water and a bottle of beer. He held out the water and Christine took it, taking a greedy sip. Mr. Singer seemed to be watching her with a grave interest as she drank then some of the tension melted away when she swallowed. "So, what was your dad doing in Wyoming, Miss--"  
"Christine. My name's Christine. And I don't know. Last time I heard from him, he was finishing up his first break at the hospital. My father was a janitor at Avera McKennan. Over on East 21st. That was eleven months ago. My mother and I...we didn't hear from him the rest of the day. When he was supposed to come home, he didn't. I tried his cell at least fifty times over the next two days. I never got any answer. When I got the call from Sheriff Andersen, I left immediately for Wamsutter. When the sheriff told me that you had called it in, I had to come talk to you. I had this...this crazy idea that you'd be the first step in helping me trace my way back the eleven months to find out what happened to my dad."

Once the words started, they didn't seem to ever want to stop. "I already know he's dead. That he was shot in the heart. What I don't know is why. So many questions that begin with 'why'. I can't even begin to imagine why he'd get shot in the first place. Everyone at Avera McKennan loved him. From the patients to the doctors. He was a good man, who never got on anyone's bad side. Always had a kind word and a stupid, silly joke to cheer you up," And this is the point where Chris loses the battle with her tear ducts and her vision goes all watery. "He didn't deserve to die. Not like that."

Mr. Singer was quiet, motionless, save for the occasional sip of his beer. His brow was knit, furrowed. "I'm sorry you lost your dad, Christine. And there's nothing I can say that can make the pain go away or lessen at all. But there's things in this world that're hard to explain and even harder to understand."

"Mr. Singer, I'm an obituarist. There's a lot of things I can understand," Christine replied, sounding very sure of herself, even though the sentence held absolutely no water.

Mr. Singer opened his mouth to speak and as he did, the phone rang. "Just gimme one second, please." He said, crossing over to the phone. Lifting the receiver to his ear, he greeted the caller with a simple 'hello'.

Apparently, he knew who the person on the other line was right away, and turn his back towards Christine a little more, speaking in low tones. After a few moments, Christine heard him say, "Just get here, you can order pizza or something." Mr. Singer hung up the phone, turning to face Christine once more. "Why don't we grab a seat in the kitchen? It's better to get bad news that way," He suggested, gesturing to the room off to her left.

"At least I know it's bad news now," Christine sighed, frowning as she turned, heading into the kitchen and sitting down at the table, glass of water still in her hand.

"Sorry," was Mr. Singer's reply as he moved to sit across from her. He was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. "This is gonna be tough to swallow, but, demons are real."

Christine's eyebrows shot towards her hairline and she coughed on the sip of water she was taking. "I'm sorry, what? Demons are...real?"

"Real as you and me. They're mean, powerful, and can possess people whenever they want," Mr. Singer nodded.

"But, wouldn't they have their own bodies or something? Why would they need to possess people?"

"This ain't an episode of Buffy, Christine. Demons come from hell. They're stuck down there, most of the time. But the lucky ones, they break out, possess some poor bastard and walk around in their meatsuit," Mr. Singer replied, shaking his head.

"Oh." Christine frowned, looking down at the table, swallowing hard. "I see."

After several long minutes of silence, there was a knock at the door and Mr. Singer stood, excusing himself and went to the door. Christine heard someone, a male someone say 'Hey, Bobby', then Mr. Singer exited the house, letting the screen door shut behind him.


	4. What do I do now?

The minutes dragged on for God only knows how long before the screen door opened, and multiple footfalls approached her. Christine lifted her head, seeing Mr. Singer in the doorway to the kitchen, as well as two tall guys. They looked to be around her age. The taller one had shaggy hair, the shorter one, who seemed around Bobby's height, had a shorter cut. "Sorry about that, Christine. This here is Sam and Dean," Mr. Singer said, clapping his hand one the taller one's shoulder first, then the short-haired guy's.

Christine wasn't exactly sure _why_ he was introducing them to her, but she nodded at them politely. "Nice to meet you."

The men nodded, the taller one looking a little less than pained or unsettled or a little of both. "Bobby says you went to Wyoming for something about you dad?" The shorter one, Dean, asked.

"Uh, yeah. My dad's body was found in some cemetery there and I'd like to know why," Christine replied, taking another sip of her water. "Then Mr. Singer started telling me about demons and I'm not exactly sure why."

"He told you how demons can possess people, right?" Dean asked, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.

Christine nodded, starting to get a little on the annoyed side. "Yes. He told me that they come from hell and that when they get out, they can possess people and control their bodies. I'm sorry, but what the _fuck_ does that have to do with my father?!"

"Your father was possessed," the taller one, Sam, said, giving her a sympathetic look.

"_What_?" Christine, in her stressed state, couldn't exactly control the volume of her question.

"Possessed," Dean repeated, looking down at her. "From what you told Bobby, we figure he was at the hospital the same time that my family was. We were in a car accident and I was in bad shape. My dad summoned a demon to make a deal and the demon possessed your father and didn't let him gone when the deal was over."

"This is nuts. You people are crazy," Christine scoffed, rising from her chair quickly, causing the legs to screech as it slid back half a foot.

"You have your father's chin," Sam said quietly, giving her a look that could only be described as the 'kicked puppy' look.

That caused Christine to freeze in her tracks. When she was little, her father's friends and family would come to visit and they'd tell her, constantly, that she had her father's chin. Which, she had a problem with, at first, because he used to have a light beard when she, most definitely, did not. "Wha--"

"I shot your father, Christine," Dean said, his features neutral, not looking guilty at all.

"You what?" Christine's head was starting to feel all funny and the world was spinning. "Why would you do such a terrible thing?" She shrieked, moving as if she wanted to strike Dean.

Sam moved forward, his hands holding her shoulders, one of his arms crossing her chest. "Christine, please understand we'd never hurt your father on purpose. We're not murderers."

"Could have fooled me by your _shooting_ my father!" Christine argued, glaring daggers at Dean.

"He was possessed by an evil sonuvabitch that killed my mother, father, and his girlfriend," Dean snapped, nodding at his brother. "I was concentrating more on stopping him from ending the world."

"But did you think, for even a second, about whose body he was in? If he had a family? A wife and child that fucking worshipped the ground he walked on? That they'd be worried, not knowing where he was for nearly a goddamn year?! Some fucking hero you are," Christine scoffed, the tears spilling down her cheeks angrily.

That got a reaction out of Dean. His features hardened and he pointed at Christine, "I _never_ said I was a hero, damn it!"

"Now, that's enough!" Mr. Singer barked, getting annoyed. "If you folks are gonna argue like a buncha pissy kids, you do it outside. I don't want anything in this house getting broken. Got too many damn unreplacable relics. Miss Halcott, I'm sorry you had to find out about your dad this way. And believe me, if there'd have been a way to kill that demon without killing your father, we woulda done it, but there just wasn't time."

Christine's chin trembled as the tears continued, sliding down her cheeks and she lifted her hands to wipe at her face. Her eyes and cheeks were red and she swallowed hard. "What am I supposed to do?" She asked in a small voice, broken up by a quiet sob.

Dean's face changed, less angry, more vulnerable. Like he'd been in the same situation-- feeling hopeless-- very recently, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't bring my dad back...." Chris muttered softly, sinking back into the chair, her shoulders slumped, staring at the floor.

Her father was dead. He was never coming back. And it wasn't his fault. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and it got him shot in the heart. Christine sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking a little. She felt a hand, heavy on her shoulder and she glanced up, seeing that it was Dean. Her chin trembled as her gaze lowered back to the floor and the toes of her sneakers. This was it. The end of the road. She found out what she wanted to know and it took _way_ less time than she'd thought. Another small sob tore its way up her throat and she exhaled brokenly.

Climbing to her feet, she squeezed her way past Mr. Singer and Sam, starting for the door. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Singer," She said quietly as she passed him. Opening the door, she faintly heard Dean call her name. She was halfway down the steps when he exited the house, stopping at the top of the stairs.

"Christine. Wait."

Christine stopped, not four feet from the house. Turning to look up at him, her eyes were red, cheek flush while the rest of her face was pale. "What?" Her tone was nothing, if not despondent and her gaze read the same.

"What're you going to do now?" Dean asked, making his way down the stairs slowly.

"I'm going to drive the twelve or so miles back to my house. Find my mother, who hates me and blames me for my father's disappearance and tell her...something. I'm going to write my father's obituary and I'm going to go on with my life as usual. I'm going to cry myself to sleep for the next few years. And, hopefully, pretend that I never met you people and that I never will again." Christine replied in a hollow, broken tone.

Dean cleared his throat, then grimaced a little. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't change anything," Christine muttered, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape the confines of her eyes. With that, she turned, starting back towards her Plymouth, unlocking the door and climbing inside.

Christine had managed to get home without breaking into tears and veering off the road. Parked in the driveway of her house, her chin trembled as the tears sprung up once more and she leaned forward, resting her hands on the steering wheel, her forehead against her hands as the sobs wracked her body. Great, gasping sobs got caught in her throat and she choked on them, causing her to cough loudly as she cried. "God, dad...."

The End


End file.
